In Rising Sighs And Falling Tears.

It Must Be So,-plato, Thou Reasonest Well! Else Whence This Pleasing Hope, This Fond Desire, This Longing After Immortality? Or Whence This Secret Dread And Inward Horror Of Falling Into Naught? Why Shrinks The Soul Back On Herself, And Startles At Destruction? 't Is The Divinity That Stirs Within Us; 't Is Heaven Itself That Points Out An Hereafter, And Intimates Eternity To Man. Eternity! Thou Pleasing, Dreadful Thought!

When A Man Becomes Familiar With His Goddess, She Quickly Sinks Into A Woman.

Our Forefathers Looked Upon Nature With More Reverence And Horror, Before The World Was Enlightened By Learning And Philosophy, And Loved To Astonish Themselves With The Apprehensions Of Witchcraft, Prodigies, Charms, And Inchantments. There Was Not A Village In England That Had Not A Ghost In It, The Church-yards Were All Haunted, Every Large Common Had A Circle Of Fairies Belonging To It, And There Was Scarce A Shepherd To Be Met With Who Had Not Seen A Spirit.

Life Is Not Long Enough For A Coquette To Play All Her Tricks In.

We Are Apt To Rely Upon Future Prospects, And Become Really Expensive While We Are Only Rich In Possibility. We Live Up To Our Expectations, Not To Our Possessions, And Make A Figure Proportionable To What We May Be, Not What We Are.